Behind Glowing Eyes
by AnimeMangaAngel
Summary: A compilation of one-shots for every episode of Teen Wolf. Started with S3E2 and S2E9 (no longer embedded in the fic; currently-written chapters posted in order, but were written out of it, so series incomplete). S1E1-3.5; POVs rotate; warnings posted inside, per chapter
1. Part 1 - Knowing

**Title: Knowing**

**Rating: **K

**Summary:** So, how _did_ Stiles guess that lycanthropy was the cause of Scott's bite from the get-go?

**Warnings: **I don't have personal experience with ADHD or the effects of Adderall - it's all the product of research (forgive me for any misrepresentations you may encounter)

**BGE**

All of his life (so far), Genim "Stiles" Stilinski was different.

He thought faster than even he could keep up with; he made connections that no one else either understood, or it took a lot of effort to see; his concentration was either shot, or super-focused; he had trouble keeping his mouth shut; his impulse to 'do now, think later' was much higher than most; he was… constantly in motion.

He took Adderall for it. It ensured that his growth was stunted: he was almost too skinny to be real, for all that he ate more than most growing teenage boys. It ensured that three-quarters of his day was spent with a mild headache pulsing just behind his eyes. It ensured that he managed, at best, four hours of sleep a night. It ensured that his motor mouth was never out of things to say. It ensured that when he had a change in mood, it was vivid, it was quick, and it was obvious.

So… it was more of a give-and-take relationship with his medication. But that was what ADHD demanded if he was going to function at even a _fraction_ of normality. But it didn't stop his ADHD symptoms – merely suppressed them.

So when Scott was bitten, Stiles mind went into overdrive.

He was a comic book lover. Batman would forever be his hero. But that didn't mean that he ignored all the other characters, all the rest of popular culture.

Scott was bitten. Scott had better senses, suddenly. Scott _rocked_ at lacrosse, when he'd been a bench-warming asthmatic since forever.

A bloodline trait? Like Naruto? A mutation? Like Wolverine? An experiment? Like… uh, the PowerPuff Girls…?!

Something nudged him, thinking like popular culture. Was it, hell, magic? And that was when Stiles' mind clicked, and the point about wolves made itself prominent: Remus Lupin! You know, from Harry Potter? The _bite_ of a werewolf (Greyback to Lupin). The _senses_ of a werewolf (those times when Lupin's eyes would flash amber, or he'd smell something). The _physical superiority_ of a werewolf (he was a poor, waif of a man, but strong beyond what Rowling painted him). And it was the full moon last night…

When Scott brought it up, Stiles' mouth got away with him, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

(Stiles wanted to facepalm so bad; since Harry Potter came out, who _didn't _know what lycanthropy was? Or, well, okay, be fair Stiles: who had at the very least, if not know the meaning of the word, who had _never_ heard the Potter-heads say the word? There had been a flood of Potter-heads in Beacon Hills a few years ago – how had Scott avoided them all? And bless him, his confusion was so eager-to-please, too.)

So it was a stupid idea, and he played it up as a joke to Scott. And that was all well and good, but they still didn't know what was wrong with Scott. Then the bite disappeared – just poof, gone.

For a little while, he contemplated letting it all go. Creepy mysteries weren't his thing; his thing was comic books, superheroes, action, adventure, police murders. But that was one of the problems of ADHD. Some part of his mind had found a hook in the mystery, and refused to let him let it be. So he contented himself with considering options – infection, like Scott said; fluke; Scott's been hiding his skills in lacrosse for Stiles' self-esteem, and is using the excitement of the body and being bitten by a strange thing to stop lying; S_tiles _was the one who had been bitten, and was in a hospital room hallucinating; there had been something in the woods, and they were having a _shared _hallucination; Scott was breaking character and being such a massive hypochondriac that the worry and adrenaline were giving him a temporary physical boost. But he kept bouncing back to the werewolf theory.

And, he should really stop listening to his father's private phone calls, because then he wouldn't hear things like: the chemical analysis and _wolf_ hairs on the body, that would make him panic (maybe) needlessly… He _really_ couldn't let it go after that, so he went on a hyper-focused research binge instead. He found himself looking up everything there was to know about werewolves. Most of it was myth – some lore that Stiles hoped, desperately, if this thing was really happening, wasn't true – and barely any of it was plausible. And he would have nightmares for a couple of nights.

But Scott showing up confirmed it. Anger. Snarls. Being thrown against a wall in pure rage. But the big deal-clincher was the claw marks scored into the back of his computer chair. All that remained was convincing Scott of all the proof that Stiles could see.

(He had a bad feeling that he would be seeing more – much more – of claw marks in the future. As long as they stayed away from his baby, Stiles supposed he would have to be okay. It was _Scott…_ he was never going to abandon his best friend.)


	2. Part 2 - Experience

**Title: Experience**

**Rating: **K+ (10+)

**Summary:** When Stiles confronted Derek in the police cruiser in Episode 2, just what was going through Derek's head? His sister had just been killed (and he accused of her murder). How was he taking it?

**Warnings: **minor character off-screen death; hints of resulting depression

**BGE**

He had rushed to Beacon Hills as soon as he felt the Alpha fall. As soon as he felt Laura… die.

What he had found was a whole slew of heartache – the old house, the old forest, the old school, and half of her body. There was an Alpha out there even as he breathed that had taken her life – and her rank – from her. That didn't deserve what she had to give.

Finding the police on the trail hadn't helped.

That rogue Alpha, whoever it was, was going to hurt those stupid, nosy humans. If it didn't, they were going to see something strange about her body, or the crime scene, or the 'animal', and… well, there was a reason werewolves didn't out themselves to humans. Mass hysteria, anybody?

So he'd used all he knew to go behind their backs and contaminate their evidence – to hide the supernatural leanings of the case. He'd gathered her body up, buried it accordingly…

God, that had hurt. Feeling the burned-out remains of the house watching as he buried literally all that was left of his living family…! The irritated, charred skin left on his palms from handling the wolfsbane rope was penance. For not protecting his older sister. For not accompanying his Alpha. For allowing humans to mess around in family affairs. For not having the guts to come back to this place until _someone else_ died. It healed slower than other wounds (he was sad it healed at all).

And now he was an Alpha-less (Pack-less) Beta, dealing with not only a rogue Alpha who liked to snack on nearby humans, but a recently Changed almost-Pack Omega who didn't know his claws from his fangs, an over-inquisitive human police force, a recently-arrived Family of Hunters, _and_ the new Omega's very human friend. It didn't help that his power was raw without an Alpha, that the rogue Alpha currently had the sneaky run of this town, that the new Omega didn't (couldn't-wouldn't-shouldn't) trust him, that he couldn't just make the police ignore this murder without sounding suspicious, that the Hunters wanted him with their usual bloodlust, and that the human boy _didn't quit!_

"Okay, just so you know: I'm not afraid of you."

Lies, all lies. The teen was _pouring _fear-scent, and his heartbeat faltered tellingly. Derek didn't deign that with a response. It was taking everything he had to remain impassive right now, anyway. Too much was happening at once. If he lost it now, he'd never be able to look this brat in the face ever again… though why Derek assumed this kid would be a permanent fixture in his life was beyond the born werewolf.

"… Okay; maybe I am. Doesn't matter!"

So Stiles had balls after all. Derek might have been impressed, if his world wasn't slowly collapsing. He'd been accused of _murdering his only sister_, for God's sake! And this kid – this _Sheriff's_ kid – was only making it worse, with his half-baked assumptions.

But Derek forced himself to breathe and think. _He_ was the one with the experience here. He was the one with the knowledge, the years, the lack of teenage-impulse. He had to get Scott to listen to him, and trust his judgment! And if the only one Scott would listen to was Stiles, then Derek had to pull himself together and use that.

As the furious Sheriff yanked his son out of the cruiser, all Derek could do was pray.

The Alpha was still loose. Scott might listen, if Stiles could think. The Hunters were still looking for Scott. The police currently had custody of Derek, and no good things to say about him… he had no control. At least, for the moment, Derek didn't have to worry about anything, because it was all out of his hands.

Now, when they realized that he _wasn't_ Laura's killer, he'd have to get back to work. But maybe a period of blankness, to get his head on straight was what he needed, after all.


	3. Part 3 - ABCs to Locker Destruction

**Title: ABCs to Locker Destruction**

Rating: K

**Summary:** Jackson, karma, locker

**Warnings:** minor language

(I tried to write this one without spoiling any future episodes. With just how little we had on Jackson in S1E3, it was much harder than I expected.)

**BGE**

Little Jackson wants **attention.**

It doesn't help that he's a **bully.**

If he **cared** about anyone other than himself…

Maybe the **damage** to his locker wouldn't have happened.

When he **enters** the hallway, there it is, broken for all to see.

**Furiously** searching for an answer to McCall's sudden skill,

The only direction he can **go,** is this: comedic relief.

So desperately **hunting** for clues.

He thinks he's **invincible.**

**Jackson** is like every other self-important teenager.

But **karma** is more a bitch than usual.

His **locker** is the second fatality of the day

(The injured man doesn't **matter** to Jackson).

In spite of his popularity, Jackson senses that where it matters, he's a **nobody.**

For now, karma is in charge of **opening** his eyes.

It will be hard, 'cause he's bent on not **paying** attention.

He, even more than Stiles, doesn't know when to stay **quiet** and let things pass.

A self-absorbed kid like him doesn't need **reasons** to be trouble.

The day he **sees** things he doesn't want to, he'll regret it.

Or he might just get himself killed, **trying** too hard.

His attitude is not **unique…**

And neither are his **vices.**

Maybe something down the line will make him **worthy** to know the truth?

But more likely, an **x-ray** of his corpse will show the truth to someone else.

Maybe Jackson will **yield,** and become someone worth knowing.

Although, he wouldn't like being part of the supernatural **zoo** (as he is in episode 3, if it meant having to run with the freaks).


	4. Part 4 - Through a Sense, Darkly

**Title: ****Through a Sense, Darkly**

**Rating: **T (16+)

**Summary:** The wolfsbane bullet did more than just give Derek a wound that would bleed all over Stiles' Jeep; it messed with his control. This is Derek's experience.

**Warnings: **Spoilers S1E4, Hurt!Derek, references to depression, momentary contemplation of suicide, overactive senses (due to poisoning)

**BGE**

It was the scent that distracted him. _Her_ scent.

So of course it was followed by a blinding pain. It was a sharp strike in his arm – and not his chest – but it was a wound that would not heal, and that was enough symbolism for him. Well… symbolism enough, until he actually _looked_ and _saw_ the unhealing bullet wound, pouring dark red blood from his forearm near the elbow.

His sense of touch flared; _here I am,_ it screamed, _here I am and it **hurts!**_

But the fact that it was a real wound didn't mean that the unending pain he associated with _her_ presence was any less fitting.

It wasn't healing. Perhaps she'd come back to finish the job she started so long ago?

He wasn't sure what he felt about that plan. He didn't want to be alone anymore.

**-TSD-**

It was the sound that told him he was close. That boy's voice was always twisted up in Scott's, when the younger werewolf went to Lacrosse practice.

The gruff rumble of a cub trying _so very hard_ to be an alpha (however much one can actually be an 'alpha' to a human pack, anyway), the snap of angry teeth as he spoke with all kinds of contrived superiority, and the crackle of hand joints ground too close together by too-tight fists characterized this teen before him.

The taste of blood on his tongue was almost too much. His wolf didn't appreciate being too wounded to heal.

It struck out in tiny ways, trying to pull his human form in; the defense mechanism of every werewolf (even more-so in the born ones) is to revert to wolf form, where the instincts and the strengths and the healing are all better-faster-stronger, when one isn't doing well.

He didn't like not being in control. The permeating scent of the students wouldn't go away; the school bell was too loud; the rough brick was barely concealed by his faithful jacket; the colors of daylight and learning and life bounced around his eyeballs without meaning… the blood on his tongue was too bitter, burning with the faint traces of wolfsbane trickling into his system.

**-TSD-**

In the end, he was too lost in his senses to notice anything coherently.

It was more than a miracle that he got Scott and Stiles to understand him (to have even _gotten_ to them; that they would have deigned to help_ him_) – it was just a miracle.

Anyone else would have been lost to the weariness, the overload, the bitter-sweet lure of a poison that promised (if nothing else) a way to be with his family again. He almost gave in; he won't lie.

The next thing he knew, he was wrapped in the slightly-medicated scent of Stiles (and… they were arguing? About what?). And he'd never noticed how Pack-Omega-Gold Stiles' eyes were – the teen was a regular human-wolf. As he came back to himself, he was overcome with the desire to touch – to ground at least one of his senses _purposefully_ in this presence that had managed to drown out the power of the poison – and found himself (somewhat vindictively) grabbing Stiles' head and slamming it down into the steering wheel.

He was growing more exhausted as time went on; manhandling Stiles was enough to bring him back around, but world-weariness was making it's grab for him now. For whatever reason, his wolf trusted Stiles enough to let him sink.

When they got to Deaton's, they would discuss his impending death – and the bullet in his arm, and the unhealing wound, and the black veins of poison creeping up his flesh, and the crazy-mad Hunter who once knew him and was bitch-dangerous – but for now…

For now, surrounded by Stiles' scent, rocked by the gentle rumblings of the Jeep that the teen lavished love on, and assured by the sound of Stiles' strong, rapid heartbeat that he didn't have to be in charge for once, Derek slid into the dark, seated beside a warm, confident (human maybe-Pack member) presence.


	5. Part 5 - Quicksand

**Title: ****Quicksand**

**Rating: ****T (16+)**

**Summary:** Alan was part of Hale Pack. But he poured his life into them, only to watch them _literally_ burn. He couldn't handle it again. So Alan does what he can to stay out of the trouble brewing in this town, even as he _knows, _like quicksand, it will drag him back quicker the more he struggles.

**Warnings: **Main spoilers S1E5, semi-spoilers S3, minor depression, Deaton has a Spark, Deaton was Pack, Deaton!Feels, language

**BGE**

At first, it was the small things.

Scott – loyal, hard-working Scott – was late. He was a little off, a little preoccupied. The animals were just a little strange around him.

Alan knew the signs. He just wanted _so badly_ not to be a part of that world again. It wasn't hard to ignore.

Then rumors of wolves in the area.

This was less easy to put aside… But it was like he'd heard the Stilinski kid telling Scott: animals migrate all the time when conditions are more favorable in one place versus another. It was an explanation that Alan willingly chose to cling to.

Then animal attacks.

He prayed that's all it was. The photographs the sheriff brought in, though - _those_ he could not ignore. _Those_ he could not explain away. There was no other creature in all the known world, or any bestiary, that made marks like those. Close, yes, but 'close' only counts in… well, you know.

Alan deflected as best as he could. His sanity was dependent at this point on staying clear of anything not strictly mundane. He would not put himself in that kind of position again – the kind that meant a dagger of cold iron pierced his chest as he felt his Pack die all at once. The kind that meant the pain was so great that he didn't feel how _two whole members_ survived relatively unscathed until he heard about it second-hand. He just couldn't subject himself to that.

He knew. He wasn't thinking around it, now. Werewolves. Back in Beacon Hills. But that didn't mean he was going to give in.

But like all things supernatural, escalation was quick, brutal, and would only get worse.

Scott wasn't just late. He was _not here._ He hadn't called ahead; Scott didn't do that. And – as much as Alan didn't want to be involved – he'd known Scott, gotten attached to Scott, long before all this. He cared about Scott like a son – he was eager to take any advice, attention, and care Alan could offer – and was worried about Scott.

It might lead back to werewolves. And that would… be more difficult that anyone could ever know. But it was Scott, the boy for whom Alan had opened his heart for the first time in six years. And that's not something a person can let go of.

"Hey, Scott! It's me again; just calling to make sure everything's okay… You were supposed to be here an hour ago. Maybe you forgot. Well, whatever it is, just give me a call and let me know everything's okay."

He was so worried…

The first step into quicksand was always the one unwittingly made.

A reflection in the glass caught Alan's attention, and a name flew unbidden to his lips.

"Sheriff Stilinski!"

He could _feel_ the world reeling him in. And it was using John's responsible, work-weathered face to do it; Alan _liked_ what little he knew of the other man. The other man was wane with concern for the safety of his town, and his dedication to his job meant there was no _way_ he was backing down from this, either.

"Listen," the other man began, "I-I hate to bother you, but, uh… I'm having a bitch of a time getting a consensus on what this is we're dealing with."

Alan was worried about _Scott_, not about some random sighting. If Scott wasn't involved in all that, by some miracle, Alan didn't want to place himself in between a rock and a hard place in the meantime. This conversation was going to be one of his best works at evasion yet… He forced a chuckle, for John's sake, and tried, "I'm really flattered you've come to me for help, but like I've said before: I'm no expert."

"But you were pretty certain the other day about out attacker being a mountain lion."

So there was going to be no easy way out of this, huh? Alan could play along.

"That's right."

John sighed, and Alan's heart – the burned remains of where his sense of Pack once sat – twanged in sympathy. He wanted to help, he did. His sense of self preservation was simply much stronger than his sense of duty. The Sheriff kept going, clueless of Alan's inner struggle.

"I wanna show you something." When he waved around the laminated leaves of a couple of security photos, Alan felt his stomach drop out. Getting physical evidence of the supernatural was almost always a death sentence for the one involved; he _hopedprayedbegged_ it not to be Derek. "We got a little lucky here. The video store didn't have any cameras, but… the security camera that was watching another parking lot happened to grab a few frames. Take a look at our 'mountain lion'."

Alan's breath stayed even: this one was harmless. Just a dark shape hurtling through a window. Could have been anything. Please not the remaining part of his Pack, please!

"Here's another."

Well, crap. That was definitely a monstrous four-legged shape hulking there in the video store parking lot. At least it wasn't Derek. Only Alphas can assume an Alpha shape; while Betas could become literal wolves with an Alpha's training, this was no wolf. And if Alan knew anything, it was that Derek couldn't do either.

He was no Alpha; while Laura might have been, she wouldn't have had the strength or experience to teach something like that to a Beta Derek; and the current Alpha running rampant over the town and Derek were not in synch. There was no way Derek would condone that kind of behavior.

"It's interesting." Keep it mild.

"Actually, uh…" Oh, come on! "This is the interesting one."

"I see what you mean." I see that it's not the only surviving member of my Pack. I see it has nothing to do with me, even peripherally. I see that you've got a werewolf problem. I see that nothing I'm connected to will currently make me help you.

"I never seen a mountain lion do that." John was incredulous, and tired.

"Can't say I have, either." Because, of course, he hadn't. Alpha wolves, sure. Mountain lions, though? Never. Lie by omission, then redirect. Perhaps the Sheriff would get the hint. "You got a problem here."

"My first instinct was that it was a bear. But bears don't walk that that on two legs."

"No, they drop to all fours."

Stubborn people were usually a favorite of Alan's. But this was a touchy subject; this was something he wanted absolutely _nothing _to do with. It wasn't John's fault, but the other man was pushing. Alan nodded distractedly, presumably to John, to cover up his distraction.

"Look, like I said: You really need an expert here."

There wasn't much he could do with the burned-Pack-place in his soul, but it would be enough. He reached deep, into the charred hollow next to the flickering warmth of his Spark. It was the work of a moment – of sense-memory, casting to the Pack across town when they could hear – to pull a thread loose, and cast it aimlessly into the back room.

"Yeah-yeah, but…" John was casting 'lines' of his own, human lines of communication. It wouldn't phase Alan; he'd had practice avoiding those. "Could this still be a mountain lion?"

On cue, sensing the distress he'd sent out – faded and shabby though it was, these animals knew who was taking care of them, and would sense _him_ in the feeling if nothing else – a Doberman began barking. Bless her.

"I'm sorry, I've got a sick Doberman that needs my attention."

John was getting desperate now, "No other ideas?"

No. Not if he wanted to stay _out _of this mess. He was guilty – he wouldn't be human otherwise – but he was desperate, too. A second run through the ringer was out. "I'm sorry. Really I wish I could help you, but I've got a sick—"

John grunted, annoyed, "—dog, I heard you." Alan never said people didn't _notice _his evasions… just that they _worked._ And, indeed, John was deflating, shoulders stooping. "Thanks for humoring me, again."

Alan shrugged, _Sorry, man, wish I could have done more,_ nodded. The important part was avoiding eye-contact; guilt, when piled on like this, could overpower even the strongest flows of self preservation. Then he fled to the back room as quick as was socially acceptable.

The ringing of the front door made Alan sag with relief against the wall. After a moment, he lifted himself up and approached the Doberman that had answered his distress call. He smoothed his hand over the sweet spot along her spine, only noticing then how much he was trembling.

"Good girl."

Alan hated how badly his voice was shaking. He hated how much he wanted to help John. He hated how badly he was burned, despite never having been close enough to _see_ the fire that changed his life.

And he hated that he was reasonably sure that Scott was probably right in the middle of this mess. Because, for Scott – who reminded him so much of Cora's twin, Elizabeth, when he was being honest with himself, who he treated like a surrogate son – Alan would do anything.

It figures that the first person he let close _would_ be a kid who falls head-first into Alan's old life.

Once in Pack, wolf or no, always in Pack, running or staying.

It won't take him without a fight, though.

Even if it's quicksand.


	6. Part 6 - Blank Spaces

**Title: ****Blank Spaces**

**Rating:** T (16+)

**Summary:** Derek is just… not having the greatest of days.

**Warnings: **Main spoilers S1E6, semi-spoilers up to S3, emotional damage of the characters is showing, Derek is a jerk, Derek and Deaton !feels, language, unBeta'd

**A/N:**I don't know how I feel about this... I feel like it's forced or awkward or missing something, maybe. What do you guys think?

**BGE**

He'd been full of barely-suppressed rage; his inner-wolf wanted so badly to get rid of the threat, the unknown Alpha. And he'd been so sure he had, if nothing else, a _lead_ from that suspicious veterinarian, Deaton! But then Scott had to come barging in…

He had been denied a chance to maybe take out some of his rage on a responsible person, even if Deaton had no connection to the Alpha – he'd been lying about the spiral-marked deer. He knew _something_, and that made him responsible for _something _in the werewolf community.

And now Derek was standing outside of his old high school, waiting for one of Stiles' hair-brained schemes to either be brilliant (unlikely) or to flop like a salmon (it probably will).

… And – cue flopage. Scott sounded like a choking cat. And that was Derek being _generous._

Or not. A moment later, a howl erupted from the school, so damned amplified by the sound system that doors rattled, windows shook, the ground filled with vibrations. Derek's ear ached with the intensity of the howl, and his wolf was _desperate_ to respond to this fellow wolf, who was so very loud and thus _must_ be in corresponding distress. It shook more in Derek than he'd be willing to admit aloud. So he reacted defensively.

"I'm gonna kill_ both of you!_ What the hell was that?! What were you trying to do: attract the whole state to the school?!

"Sorry, I didn't know it'd be that loud," Scott offered, at least a little bashful.

Stiles, on the other hand, smelled like exhilaration and adrenaline, and his response was breathless, eyes glittering with excitement, "Yeah. It was loud. And it was _awesome!"_

Derek felt he couldn't be blamed that his automatic response was a simple, irritated, "Shut up." Stiles was such a child.

"Don't be such a Sourwolf." Um. What?

If Stiles thought that was going to be a _thing_, he'd better be thinking again. That was a _ridiculous_ nickname.

But before he could inform the teen of that, Scott started freaking out. Somehow the vet had gotten away. How this happened to Derek, the man was at a loss to explain. And that was how Doctor Alan Deaton was the last thing on Derek's mind before a ruthless claw emerged from his chest.

(instead of his life flashing before his eyes – because being thrown into the school's brick wall hurt like hell, but it got the claw out of his chest and allowed the healing to start, so he wasn't dying – it was what he knew, what he'd forgotten, about Alan)

It hurt.

**-BS-**

More was affected by the fire than just the state of his family. It was a trope in a whole lot of fiction, but until the fire, Derek hadn't realized it was a real-life thing, too – bits and pieces of his life were just blanks.

He'd forgotten.

The holes were always there, in the back of his mind, dark and intimidating. At first, he'd had Laura to remember for him. It wasn't that he missed things – all he knew were the holes, not what they contained, and he couldn't _miss_ what he didn't _know – _and the young Derek pretended it didn't matter so much. Then his safety died, when Laura was murdered.

The Derek who moved back to Beacon Hills, who met Scott and Stiles, who stood fuming before the high school, listening to a dying cat – this was the Derek who went to Deaton that afternoon.

Derek moved into the clinic on silent feet, eager to catch the doctor off guard. On cue, the dark man called out, assuming his entrance to be Scott's. The look in his eyes when he saw Derek, though…

He couldn't identify it, and was too angry, to desperate to end this Alpha already, to bother with trying to read it.

(Choking on his own blood, unable to breath passed the claw in his chest, he recognized it as part pain, part hope, part shock. One small piece of darkness began to lift from Derek's fire-addled mind.)

When Derek's face didn't change in recognition of his emotion storm, he sees Deaton's face falter, and his voice is just a little flat when he asks, "Can I help you?"

(Alan had given up, Derek could see now. Alan had _known _Derek, had probably thought Derek was mad at him, because he hadn't come to see his old emissary after returning from New York. That look had been Alan hoping Derek had forgiven him; Alan shutting down had been him submitting to Derek's perceived anger. And Alan didn't realize that Derek had simply lost entire pieces of his childhood.)

"Hope so. Wanna know about the animal you found with the spiral in it's side?"

And Deaton's face crumpled in such confusion. "E-exuse me?"

(Alan was hurt Derek was acting so distant. Derek could almost see the realization pouring over his face, in retrospect. It hurt to see Alan crumble, realize the last of his Pack didn't even know who he was, for whatever reason.)

And then it was a dance of words. Of Derek fighting to figure out just what this elusive vet knew, and Deaton trying desperately to keep himself and his involvement in the world that had ruined him time and again from this once-Packmate who clearly didn't know him.

And it was Deaton trying to prove he knew nothing while trying to understand why Derek would reveal his world to a 'complete stranger'. And it was Derek doing the only thing he knew how to do: intimidate the information out of his opponent, using information that would have an unknowing human too terrified to think straight, and a knowing one scared nonetheless of the obvious threat he was making.

(Knowing he'd willingly harmed a _member of his family_, recalling the pained grunt as he threw Alan on the table, the smeared blood – tangy and sharp – across a familiar cheek… Derek hurt _so bad.)_

"I don't know what you're talking about, D—Ah, what are you doing to me?!"

(Alan had been about to break his own cover, brave his own pain, throw aside his own walls, to try and breach Derek's. He'd been about to call Derek by his name. The pain of being tossed against a wall head-on didn't even compare to knowing how he'd alienated his Pack's old emissary.)

And then Scott intervened.

(And there was no way to fix the pain, the mistake, the gaping hole that now would exist between them. Because Derek remembered just how bad off Alan had been when he'd arrived to the Hale Pack – even if Derek _had_ been really little – and Derek knew that _this _would be Alan's last straw. No matter how Derek could try to package the event, amnesia wouldn't be a fix for Alan. When Pack was killed, Alan withdrew. This was just fate proving to Alan – as far as Alan was concerned, using Derek – that his Pack was once more out of his reach.)

**-BS-**

When Derek finally woke, coughing roughly, once more aware of who Alan Deaton had been to the Hale Pack, his heart sank.

For days, he would carry the hopelessness that had swamped him just as he blacked out.

But as the weeks passed, as they discovered who the Alpha was, as the mysterious kanima made it's appearance, as the Alpha Pack made tracks, Derek came to a realization.

If Stiles – who knew nothing about werewolves, whose life was turned upside down by a vicious attack on his best friend – could adapt, it was okay. If Stiles could convince Derek to take on a Pack of his own, it was okay.

Because if Derek could be convinced to let go of his hurts… Then surely, if Derek was slow and careful about it, even Derek could maybe have a chance to convince Alan not to leave them alone completely.

Not to leave the last of his Pack without a backward glance.

(It would help if he could get Scott to agree to being in his Pack, too. Stiles was Scott's best friend – and convincing Stiles didn't actually look, at this point, like it would be all that hard.)


End file.
